The room was warm in every way – the lighting, the temperature and the feelings. The family had been crammed in there for several hours, members leaving only for a drink or snack or fresh air. But each inevitably came back, not wanting to miss a moment. Because their Grandad only had a few of them left.
On the walls hung pictures he’d had for years. His daughter had hung them when he’d moved in eight years before to help him feel more at home. There were the portraits of his girls, the painting of the house where he grew up, the black and white photo of him in uniform at his wedding, a candid of his wife in London. Now, as his breathing slowed, the photos were a tribute to his extraordinary ordinary life.
He’d declined fast and unexpectedly. His health hadn’t been great for several years, but that hadn’t stopped him from taking the Caribbean cruise the summer before or soaking in the hot tub out back.
“You’re living on borrowed time, Gene,” his doctor had told him a couple years before. Boy, did he live.
Gene and Donna Martin (far left) dine with friends in Naples, Italy.
His grandchildren moved in and out of the now solemn place in a steady flow. They kissed his forehead, held his hands, told him their favorite memories. They talked about how he never forgot to call and sing to them on their birthday.
His breathing got louder and more belabored. The end was near. It seemed his 28-year-old spirit had grown restless in its 93-year-old bones.
Someone mentioned his watch – he still had it on and it was ticking away. A small group crowded around to adjust him and make him more comfortable. A granddaughter smoothed his hair, the little he had. He’d lost that even before he fell in love with Donna Mae, his wife of nearly 60 years, who died almost a decade before. His son, daughter, and grandson shifted his weight and tucked him in.
In the commotion, he opened his eyes and uttered what would be his last words:
“I’m alive! Are we gonna have a party?”
His eyes closed then. The group laughed and tried desperately to get his attention. But he was far away again.
It wasn’t too much later that he took his last breath. When a grandson announced to the group that Grandad was gone, they rushed to the room and hugged and kissed him and each other.
Groups took turns staying in the room until the hospice came to take him away.
Later that night, the family gave a toast. “To G-Diddy,” they said, and raised their glasses. They broke into “Amapola”, the song he famously liked to sing. The family sang off-key and in unison his version of it, which they’d discovered a couple years ago wasn’t even close to the real song.
It was Christmas Eve. Grandad would’ve been so proud.
